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  xRSxxRSxxRSx

  I sat across from Pre at the table, the steady hum of hyperspace filling the air like white noise in the background. A small plate with an uj'alayi cake rested between us, its dark, sticky surface gleaming under the dim lights. I'd already taken a bite, and I understood now why Skirata's boys practically worshipped the stuff. It was rich, dense, and had just the right amount of sweetness.

  But I wasn't here just to eat. Pre was teaching me Mando'a, and right now, I was going through numbers.

  "Odd numbers, from one to ten," Pre instructed, leaning back in his seat with that ever-watchful look in his eyes.

  I swallowed the bite of cake and nodded. "Taylir, ehn, rayshe'a, resol, e'tad," I said, going through them carefully.

  Pre gave a small nod of approval. "Good. Again, but faster."

  I repeated them, pushing the words out smoother this time. Mando'a felt different on my tongue, sharper in some places and flowing in others. It wasn't a language that wasted breath.

  Pre tore off a piece of uj cake and ate it, watching me. "You're picking it up quickly, Kan'ika."

  That… felt strange to hear. I knew what that meant, how it was a familial term of endearment, and it made me feel strange.

  I shrugged to hide my feelings of awkwardness. "It's not too bad once you get a feel for the structure." I took another bite, letting the flavors linger before asking, "Why odd numbers first, though?"

  Pre smiled, wiping a few crumbs from his fingers. "No reason. Now for the next lesson, ask for a piece of uj cake in Mando'a."

  I chewed the inside of my cheek, thinking for a second before piecing it together in my head. Then, with careful pronunciation, I said, "Gar tai'nar'akaat be uj'alayi."

  Pre let out a quiet chuckle and slid the plate toward me. "Not bad. You'll sound like a proper Mando'ad soon enough."

  I took another piece, the sticky sweetness clinging to my fingers as I ate. The language was coming easier than I expected, but maybe that was because I actually wanted to learn it. It wasn't just words—it was culture, a way of thinking, a way of living according to Pre.

  And I'd take every lesson I could get.

  Pre leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely as he regarded me. There was something measured in his gaze, like he was turning something over in his head before speaking.

  Then, with a soft tone, he asked, "This isn't a test or a threat, Kane, please know that. What do you know about the Jedi, as in do you know what their abilities are?"

  I didn't freeze, but I did go still for just a second. A flicker of tension, barely there, before I took another slow bite of uj cake and looked at him.

  "I do, yes."

  Pre continued, still with his soft tone.

  "I'm not going to dance around it," he said, his tone firm but far from unkind. "because I don't deal in subterfuge, and I don't go looking for secrets. But I want to be open with you, and I wish the same in return." He met my eyes. "I saw how you fought on Nar Shaddaa and I knew then, or at least suspected, and I was willing to wait. Can you use those abilities?"

  There it was. No pretense, no baiting, just a straightforward question.

  I respected that.

  I set my third slice of uj cake down and nodded. "Yes."

  Pre's brow arched slightly. "Self-taught?"

  "Until recently," I confirmed.

  That caught his attention. "Oh?"

  I exhaled and gestured vaguely. "The triangle device I have, it's a learning tool for Force users. A holocron. They're incredibly rare and valuable."

  Pre leaned back slightly, considering. "And you know this how?"

  "I learned of them on Tatooine," I said, which wasn't exactly a lie. "There was another holocron on the planet and I, well, didn't bring it with me."

  Pre didn't push further, but I could feel his curiosity. I kept my expression neutral, though my thoughts strayed elsewhere.

  What happened to that holocron?

  The one that Anakin would have found.

  The thought of Anakin, his name alone, was a spike to the ribs, sharp and unexpected. I forced it aside, gripping my fingers together just a little tighter before reaching for my half eaten slice of uj cake.

  Pre was silent for a moment, weighing my words. His fingers drummed lightly on the table before he asked, "And how much can it actually teach you?"

  I met his gaze. "Since I've spoken with the holocron, and I mean actually talked with it, because it's essentially an imprint of its creator, I know it can train me to potentially defeat Jedi Masters."

  Pre's expression didn't shift much, but I could feel his interest sharpen.

  I didn't elaborate further, but my mind drifted back to Malgus, to his voice like stone grinding against steel.

  'You glow like a furnace in the Force, more than any who have come before you.'

  His words had been laced with something between curiosity and satisfaction.

  'You will shatter. You will break. And I will reforge you into the greatest jewel the Sith have ever crafted.'

  I had stared him down then, refusing to flinch under his gaze. But even now, sitting here in the quiet hum of hyperspace, I could still feel the weight of those words pressing against my spine.

  He had confirmed my suspicions about just how powerful I was. Had I been someone of middling potential in the league elite fighters, such as Kenobi with his comparatively weaker connection to the Force, I would have barely managed anything like I have. Instead, I quite possibly could be above Windu or Dooku in raw potential.

  If not higher.

  Pre nodded slightly. "Interesting."

  He didn't press further, but there was no mistaking the consideration in his voice. "You should use it," he continued, his tone casual, but deliberate. "If it can sharpen your abilities, make you stronger, then it's worth learning from."

  I caught a flicker of something across his surface thoughts; quick, sharp, a subdued blaze of thought lancing through his mind before it vanished just as fast.

  It wasn't something I recognized.

  I didn't push. If Pre wanted to share, he would. But the fact that he hadn't dismissed the holocron outright, that he actively encouraged me to keep using it, said enough.

  "Combine it with the training of the Mando'ade, and I will be more than happy." I said, and Pre gave a rare open smile and he nodded. "Will there be more training today or just Mando'a?"

  Pre shook his head. "I wish to see your accuracy with a blaster improve, so not just Mando'a teaching, no."

  I clicked my tongue and frowned. I was abysmal compared to what I was. I went from one of the better marksmen in my regiment and a fair pistol shot to being barely above your average redneck that thought tagging a doe at 252 yards made him a trained killer. 12 years of not training and having a new body had a habit of throwing your skills off kilter, don't ya know.

  I finished off my third slice of uj cake, savoring the lingering sweetness and wiping the crumbs on my pants leg. Rolling my shoulders, I exhaled through my nose, feeling the weight of my training mindset settle back over me.

  "Fine with me," I said, stretching my arms out briefly. "I could use the extra work with a pistol anyway."

  Pre gave a small nod, his expression shifting back to its usual composed state. "Good. We'll begin in ten minutes."

  I stood, rolling my neck until it gave a satisfying crack. "Then let's get to it."

  (LINE BREAK)

  I was bruised. My forearms burned from the repeated impacts, muscles screaming every time I had to block or deflect another strike. Pre moved like a damn force of nature; precise, relentless, and utterly unforgiving.

  He wasn't just better than me. He was the single most dangerous hand-to-hand fighter I had ever faced.

  I barely managed to deflect a palm strike aimed at my ribs, stepping back to regain some distance, but Pre was already on me, closing the gap before I could react. His elbow slammed into my guard, jarring my arms and sending a sharp ache shooting up to my shoulders.

  "K'atini," Pre grunted, his movements effortless compared to my sluggish ones.

  Grit your teeth and bear it.

  I exhaled sharply and forced myself to push forward, ignoring the pain as I aimed a quick jab toward his side. It barely registered as an inconvenience to him. Pre caught my wrist, twisted, and sent me sprawling onto my back before I even knew what happened.

  The impact knocked the breath from my lungs, and I barely stopped myself from groaning.

  "Too slow," Pre remarked, crossing his arms as he looked down at me. "And you're dropping your left side every time you strike."

  I clenched my teeth, staring up at the ship's ceiling for a second before forcing myself upright again. My entire body protested, but I wasn't done.

  "Again," I said, resetting my stance.

  I exhaled slowly, drawing the Force into myself. It rushed through my limbs like fire in my veins, sharpening my focus, pushing away the dull ache of bruises and exhaustion. My movements would be faster now, stronger.

  I lunged.

  Pre reacted instantly, but this time I was quicker. My fist shot toward his ribs, only for him to pivot just enough to let the strike slide past him. I twisted, bringing my other arm up for a sharp elbow strike, but he deflected it with ease, angling my momentum away from him.

  I followed up immediately, pressing the attack. A feint with my left, a low kick to sweep his leg; nothing landed. Pre either blocked, knocked aside, or simply wasn't there by the time my strikes arrived.

  I grit my teeth, pushing faster, trying to slip past his guard. I twisted into a brutal hook aimed at his jaw, only for his forearm to meet mine with a sharp clap of impact.

  And then his palm met my chest, and I was sent stumbling back before I could even react.

  I caught myself before falling, breathing hard. Pre hadn't even broken a sweat.

  "Better," he admitted, rolling his shoulders. "But relying on your abilities won't make up for lacking technique. You're still telegraphing too much."

  I exhaled sharply, shaking out my arms as I prepared for another round. My pride took the hit, but I couldn't deny that Pre Vizsla was on an entirely different level.

  We reset, and I attacked again. And lost again.

  Pre didn't gloat and didn't waste words, he simply stepped back, assessing. Then his voice took on a sharper edge, the practiced cadence of an instructor. "Drop. Push-ups, thirty. Now."

  I obeyed without hesitation, muscles screaming as I pressed myself up and down, the exertion compounding the strain from the fight.

  "Up."

  I sprang to my feet and launched forward, striking hard and fast. Pre moved like a ghost, deflecting, redirecting, and before I knew it, I was on my back again.

  "Again."

  The cycle continued. Push-ups. Attacks. More losses. My arms trembled by the time I got up, my breathing ragged. Sweat soaked through my clothes, my vision blurred at the edges, and I could taste the faint tang of blood on my lips.

  But I still pushed forward.

  I lost count of how many times I hit the floor. It stopped mattering.

  By the end of it, I could barely stand, every muscle burning, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. But I refused to let Pre carry me. Gritting my teeth, I dragged myself over to a chair and practically collapsed into it, snatching up a canteen and guzzling down water. Some of my sweat-soaked hair had fallen loose from my braid, and I pushed it back, my hands unsteady.

  Something small arced through the air toward me. I caught it on instinct, fingers closing around a pill.

  "Bacta pill," Pre said. "It'll take the edge off."

  I tossed it in my mouth and swallowed it dry, too tired for a moment to even take a drink.

  "You have ten minutes," he added. "Then we start again."

  I exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of my palm against my brow. Ten minutes. It would have to be enough.

  Ten minutes went by faster than I wanted.

  I forced myself up, legs shaky but holding, and reset my stance. Pre gave a sharp nod. We went again.

  I lost.

  Again.

  And again.

  The process repeated, my body moving on instinct even as it screamed at me to stop. My vision blurred at the edges. The room felt too hot, the air too thin. Then, suddenly, my stomach lurched violently.

  I barely made it two steps before I doubled over, heaving up the water I'd guzzled down, along with the undigested capsule of the bacta pill. My arms braced against my knees as I coughed, spitting bile onto the floor.

  Pre said nothing. He didn't have to. I could feel his gaze on me, weighing, assessing.

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, breathing hard. I wasn't done. Not yet.

  We went again.

  And again.

  Each time, I lost. My body was past the point of exhaustion, muscles burning, limbs sluggish. I barely registered hitting the floor the last time. My legs refused to cooperate, the world tilting as I tried, and failed, to stand.

  Pre didn't say a word as I lay on the floor for a moment. He simply stepped forward, crouched, and lifted me with ease. I was too tired to protest, letting my head rest against his shoulder as he carried me across the room. The cot dipped as he set me down gently.

  I heard the faint slosh of water before my canteen was pressed into my hands, along with another bacta pill. I swallowed them both without hesitation, my throat dry, my body aching from head to toe.

  "You did well," Pre said, his voice quieter than before. "I'm proud of you."

  The words settled deep, warm despite the exhaustion dragging me down.

  And a moment, a very brief one, of clarity settled on me as I realized something. It was almost sad, tragic even, to think about from an outsider's perspective, the perspective of those who hadn't fought, hadn't bled, hadn't experienced the brutal breaking and building up that was a warrior's training.

  Pre beating me into the ground until I could no longer stand, then carrying me to my quarters as if I were a small child in need of a nap, and telling me he was proud, it was the first affection and care I had consistently received since Tatooine. It had seemed so normal to me, similar to boot camp but harsher, and was a caress compared to combat itself, and it had taken me until now to realize that Pre seemed to truly care.

  "Rest," He instructed, his tone having lost its usual sharpness from the last couple hours; his tone was soft even. "Let the meds do the rest."

  I was already halfway under before I could reply. The last thing I felt was the cot shifting slightly as Pre stood, and then the pull of sleep finally won.

  (LINE BREAK)

  The transition from hyperspace was seamless, the stars stretching, then snapping back into their proper places. I leaned forward in my seat, watching as the Kerkoidia system unfolded before us. Another new planet, another unfamiliar stretch of space.

  Kerkoidia itself loomed ahead, a mix of deep greens and golden savannahs sprawling across its surface. It was a world I had no real connection to, no prior knowledge besides vague mentions. But now, I was here, staring at it with my own eyes.

  Pre tapped a few controls on the console, sending out clearance codes. A moment passed before the response came, and then we began our descent.

  The ship vibrated slightly as it entered the atmosphere, the view outside shifting from the void of space to streaks of cloud and glimpses of endless plains below. The designated landing zone was a secluded stretch of savannah, a safe distance from any major settlements.

  The landing struts extended, and with a soft jolt, we touched down. The engines wound down, the hum fading into silence.

  Pre unhooked his harness and stood. "Come on," he said, grabbing his helmet from where it rested on the console. "Let's move."

  I exhaled, running a hand over my tight braid, then followed him toward the exit ramp.

  The ramp hissed as it lowered, the warm air of Kerkoidia brushing against my face. I adjusted the light armor Pre had pieced together for me, a temporary set, nothing compared to what I'd eventually receive from a proper Mandalorian armorer. That would come later.

  For now, this would do.

  Pre stepped down beside me, hefting a crate of target drones with ease. Without a word, he reached to his side and handed me a blaster carbine. I took it, feeling the familiar weight settle into my grip.

  "We're here to train," he said, shifting the crate under one arm as he glanced around the open landscape. The golden grass stretched for miles, interrupted only by scattered rock formations. "No distractions."

  I gave a small nod, checking the power cell on the carbine. "Got it."

  Pre smirked faintly. "Let's get started."

  We trudged up the hill, the grass crunching softly beneath our boots. The air was warm, but not unpleasant, with a steady breeze rolling across the savannah.

  Pre set the crate down with a thud. "Set up."

  I adjusted my stance, bringing the carbine up and checking over its components as Pre keyed in a few commands. The drones inside the crate whirred to life, lifting off in a synchronized hum before lazily floating a hundred meters out.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Pre glanced at me. "Load it."

  I reached for a fresh gas cartridge, slotting it in with a practiced motion before locking a power pack into place. The carbine whined softly as it came to life. I kept the muzzle pointed downrange, ensuring I didn't flag Pre or myself like some idiot fresh off a recruitment drive.

  That last part was a little more difficult than one would expect for me at the moment, but most people from my life didn't get to wield an energy weapon that had literally zero bullet drop. Any sharpshooter would be practically vibrating in excitement at the prospect, and this thing had more piercing power against steel than a 50 cal. I was very fucking excited to finally shoot a blaster that wasn't a little tinker toy of a pistol.

  Pre watched without comment as I flicked the setting to low, exactly as he had drilled into me during the long journey here.

  "Good," He finally said, stepping back slightly, kneeling down and giving me a nod of encouragement. "Now, let's see if you can actually hit something." He gestured for me to fire, and I complied, peering through the scope with my dominant eye.

  Oh what I would have given for a sight like this back home, better than the best red dot sights and with a toggled zoom setting. I steadied my breathing, put the crosshairs on one of the spherical drones hovering lazily a few feet off the ground, and squeezed the trigger.

  The blaster barked, a red bolt lancing through the air, striking the drone dead center. It let out a sharp beep before spinning erratically from the impact, stabilizing a moment later. The faint scent of ozone curled in my nostrils, mixing with the dry savannah air.

  I steady my breathing, practically giddy at having used the blaster for the first time.

  I shifted to the next target, adjusting my aim slightly. Another squeeze of the trigger, another bolt fired, another direct hit. The drone wobbled before realigning itself.

  Pre remained silent, watching, arms crossed as I methodically picked off each hovering target. My breathing slowed into a familiar rhythm for breath control; inhale, aim, exhale, fire. The last drone wavered in the air, and I lined up the shot before sending a bolt straight through it.

  Beep.

  The last one dipped slightly before hovering back to position.

  I lowered the carbine, flexing my fingers around the grip and removing my index from the trigger. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than before. Pre gave a satisfied nod. "Not a bad first attempt."

  I exhaled. "I should be better."

  I could once pick which chamber of somebody's heart would explode at 250 at dawn after pulling an all-nighter at a local pub without any problem at all. But these drones were as large as my head and at 100.

  "You will be." Pre pressed a button on his bracer, resetting the drones' alert. "Again."

  I didn't argue, just shifted my position on the ground, settled my grip, and went again.

  The cycle repeated. Fire. Adjust. Fire. Each shot found its mark, the drones dipping slightly with every impact before steadying.

  Pre adjusted the distance with a typed out command, sending the targets another 50 meters back. I adjusted my aim accordingly, compensating for the increased range. It took a few extra moments to line up each shot, but I still landed every hit.

  Another 50 meters. Then another.

  At 250, I started feeling the difference. The drones were smaller in my scope, the blaster bolts taking just a fraction longer to reach their targets. I had to focus more, time each shot carefully.

  At 300, the hits became inconsistent. One shot landed, the next went wide. I tightened my grip, trying to correct, but the misses piled up.

  At 350, I was missing more than I was hitting.

  I exhaled sharply, lowering the carbine, jaw tight with frustration.

  Pre walked over, standing beside me. He didn't berate or comment on my failures, just studied me for a moment before nodding toward the distant targets. "What are you compensating for?"

  I frowned. "Distance, breath control, and a lower magnification."

  Internally, I seethed. This was a skill I once had and now it was nothing compared to what it was. I could kill beyond 500 before.

  Pre pressed the button on his bracer again. The drones reset, hovering at 300. "Again."

  I kept at it for hours, pausing only for brief rests and a quick lunch before getting back to it. The rhythm settled into something almost meditative; adjust, aim, fire, reload. Over and over. My hand and index began to ache, but I pushed through, determined to regain what I'd lost.

  Pre stayed nearby, watching, sometimes correcting me when I slipped into a bad habit I'd once controlled, but mostly letting me work through it. Between shots, we talked. Sometimes about Mandalorian culture, sometimes about places he'd been, sometimes about nothing important at all. I asked about some of the jobs he did, about old war stories he had hinted at, even about the model of the carbine in my hands. Pre answered everything, his tone patient and actually entertained by the questions.

  Every so often, I swapped out a power pack, flexing my fingers before resetting my position. The sun dipped lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the savannah. By the time Pre finally called it, I was sore and exhausted, sweat clinging to my back from the unclouded sun beating down on me. But I was hitting shots I wouldn't have a few hours ago. That was progress.

  I ejected the power pack, setting it aside before clearing the chamber and double-checking the safety. Only then did I start breaking the rifle down, my fingers moving through the familiar motions Pre had drilled into me. Piece by piece, I disassembled the weapon, laying each component out in neat order. The heat from the barrel bled through my gloves, a reminder of just how many shots I'd fired.

  Once the last part was free, I turned the fully disassembled rifle toward Pre, showing my work. He eyed it, then nodded in approval. "Good job, Kan'ika," he said, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

  I exhaled through my nose, rolling out my stiff shoulders.

  Pre pressed a command into his bracer, and the drones, which had hovered idly at a distance, whirred as they returned, gliding through the air toward us.

  He then reached out as the drones hovered into place, plucking one from the air with ease. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting the surface with a keen eye. The outer durasteel casing bore the evidence of our training, scoring marks from repeated blaster impacts, the faintest hint of discoloration from heat.

  "Holding up well," he muttered, rotating it once more before placing it back in the case. One by one, he did the same with the others, nodding in satisfaction as he confirmed they were undamaged beyond superficial marks. Once the last drone was secured, he shut the case with a firm click, locking it in place.

  "Not bad for a day's work," he said, standing and dusting off his gloves.

  I nodded, my arms aching but steady as I reached for the disassembled blaster laid out before me. Without needing further instruction, I began piecing it back together, the motions now feeling more instinctual after hours of use. The power pack locked in with a satisfying click, the gas cartridge slid smoothly into place, and the final components snapped together under my fingers. Even with the fatigue dragging at my limbs, I made sure everything was properly secured before presenting the weapon to Pre.

  He gave it a quick once-over, nodding in approval before motioning for me to follow. "Let's head back."

  I exhaled and slung the carbine over my shoulder, falling into step beside him as we made our way down the hill. The sun had started its descent, stretching our shadows long across the dry grass. My armor, light as it was, felt heavier with every step, the exhaustion from the day's drills settling deep into my bones.

  Pre, on the other hand, moved with the same effortless stride as ever, carrying the drone case with one hand as if it weighed nothing. "You did well today, Kan'ika," he said after a few moments of silence.

  I huffed out a breath, not quite sure if I believed it. "Could've been better."

  He chuckled. "Always. But for now, you learn, you adapt, and tomorrow, you'll be better."

  I said nothing, letting the words settle as we continued toward the ship, the distant hum of its engines growing louder as we reached it.

  (LINE BREAK)

  I sat on my cot, legs stretched out and back against the cool metal wall of my bunk, letting out a slow exhale. The last month had been nothing but training and learning, and while the former left my body sore and aching, the latter was the only thing I was doing at the moment.

  The datapad in my hands flickered slightly as I scrolled through another historical record, eyes scanning for discrepancies, trying to pick apart what was strictly Legends and what was open for creative interpretation if not an outright contradiction. There were too many conflicting accounts, exaggerations, myths wrapped in truths, or truths buried under years of distortion. I needed facts, and I had thankfully gotten a few.

  Revan and Malak explicitly existed, Malgus' Holocron was self-evident of that Sith's existence, and after more of the details I had gotten from the holocron, after proving to not crack under another mental assault to prove I could pay for knowledge with pain, I could confirm it was older EU compliant.

  Exar Kun existed based upon the millennia old recording on the holonet I watched of him putting his fist through the back of the Chancellor's head, which would need eventually addressed by something that was preferably a way to purge his presence from Yavin IV as even Luke, admittedly not as much of a demigod as he was later in life, had been unable to take him on solo.

  The later parts are where things got tricky. The New Sith Wars were basically Canon to both continuities, and there were records of Mandalore getting struck by bombardment from the Republic a few centuries back. I'd asked Pre and he said it was only part of the planet that was destroyed, with most of it either being untouched or recovering after a couple hundred years.

  That convinced at the very least that this world I was in lined up more with old EU lore before TCW, but with elements of TCW. The Katana Fleet existed for example, disappeared after the hive virus that infected the crew drove them insane, and then has not been seen since.

  I rubbed a hand over my face before switching tabs, bringing up a list of known ocean worlds with active archaeological digs. Somewhere out there was the planet I was looking for and I just couldn't remember its damn name. But I knew what I was after.

  Adas' holocron.

  A relic of the Sith, far older than most people would even realize. A gateway to knowledge that could be invaluable, but also dangerous in the wrong hands. It wasn't just about powe- oh who was I kidding, it was about power and little else. I knew Malgus was no sorcerer and such abilities would be more than useful.

  I frowned, fingers tapping against the datapad as I narrowed the search filters, eliminating planets that didn't fit the image in my mind. It was there. I just had to find it.

  Minutes stretched into an hour, my eyes scanning through the ever-narrowing list of ocean worlds, my mind cycling through half-formed memories, scraps of information that refused to coalesce into something solid. The answer was just out of reach, like a name on the tip of my tongue.

  With a frustrated sigh, I shut off the datapad and set it aside. Chasing ghosts wasn't going to get me anywhere, not tonight, at least…

  Unless…

  I looked to my right and my fingers drifted toward the holocron resting on the small table beside me. It was warm to the touch, pulsing with a presence just beneath the surface, like a slumbering beast waiting to be stirred.

  I exhaled slowly, brushing my mind against it, the way one might skim a stone across water. The reaction was immediate. The holocron pulsed in response, its intricate markings glowing faintly as the ancient mechanisms within began to shift, unlocking. I felt the familiar weight of its presence settle into my thoughts, cold and sharp.

  The holocron flared to life, red light spilling from its seams as intricate mechanisms shifted and clicked into place. A moment later, the spectral image of Darth Malgus materialized before me, standing tall, arms clasped behind his back. His ruined face was set in a neutral expression, his dark side tainted eyes appraising me with a quiet intensity.

  "I sense you have a question," his deep voice rumbled, echoing faintly as if carried from across a great distance.

  I didn't hesitate. "Is there a technique to recall full memories from fragments?"

  Malgus tilted his head slightly, the dim glow of the holocron casting sharp shadows across his war-torn features. "You seek to recover information that is lost?" he mused, voice laced with something that could have been amusement or mild curiosity. "A mind is not a simple archive, easily restored at will. Memory is shaped by perception, reinforced by experience, and often twisted by time."

  He shifted his stance slightly, as if considering my request. "But it is possible, if you have the will to withstand the twisting and contorting necessary."

  I frowned, mulling over his words. "And what exactly does that entail?"

  Malgus exhaled, a faint distortion flickering through his image, as if the holocron itself strained under the weight of his next words. "It requires focus. You must summon what you remember, grasp onto the fragments, no matter how small. Meditate upon them. Hold onto the details you recall, no matter how insignificant they may seem."

  His eyes bore into me, unreadable. "But true clarity only comes through pressure. A mental attack, an adversary pressing into your mind, will force the forgotten details to the surface. The gaps will either be filled, or pain will be your only reward."

  I tensed slightly at that. "And the Jedi?"

  Malgus let out a low, unimpressed scoff. "They have their own methods; gentle, inefficient, and slow. They seek clarity through peace, detachment. But the Sith understand the truth. A mind that has inaccessible information is like a fractured stone, only under great force does it reveal what lies within." The visible parts of his face curled into something resembling a smirk. "Pain is the chisel that carves the past from the depths of your mind."

  I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders as I settled my thoughts. "I want to do it now."

  Malgus tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Impulsive. But not unexpected."

  The holocron pulsed faintly, as if responding to my resolve. Malgus straightened, his form seeming to sharpen, the blue light intensifying around him. "Then sit. Still your body. Quiet your thoughts. Focus on what you seek to remember."

  I did as he instructed, shifting into a meditative position on the cot, placing my hands on my knees. I closed my eyes, letting my breathing slow, my mind narrowing onto the scattered fragments that had eluded me for too long.

  Malgus' voice was softer now, but no less commanding. "I will sense when you are ready. When your mind is open enough to receive what must come next."

  I swallowed, steadying myself. Whatever happened next, I would endure it.

  I inhaled deeply, steadying my thoughts as I let myself sink into the currents of the Force, but not fully. It was a balancing act, allowing the tide to guide me while keeping my sense of self intact. I would not let it consume me, and the cold blade of my fury kept the threads from unraveling the edges of my mind at the seams.

  Fragments surfaced. Disjointed, scattered, yet vivid.

  The lecture hall. A professor, a blob of nothing other than a vaguely male voice at the front of the room, his voice precise and deliberate as he spoke of ancient Sith and their self-destructive tendencies. A young Padawan in the crowd, Obi-Wan Kenobi, listening intently, taking in every word. That same professor, years later, his mind shattered, his eyes wild with terror as he ranted about whispers in the dark, about knowledge that was better left at the bottom of the ocean.

  Another memory. Kenobi and Anakin, older now, side by side, assigned to investigate the same holocron that had driven the scholar to madness…

  I sank deeper, weaving through the strands of memory, each more defined than the last. I could almost touch the truth I was seeking—

  Pain.

  Like a blade through my skull, white-hot and merciless, Malgus slammed down on my mind and I felt myself nearly buckle under the weight. My body locked up, every muscle seizing at once as the fragmented details slammed into place, forced together in an instant.

  A vision surged forward, raw and unrelenting.

  Kenobi and Anakin, no, Vader, on Mustafar. Their blades clashed, blue against blue, the heat of the molten river casting flickering shadows against their furious expressions. A duel of rage and betrayal, neither holding back.

  And then, Anakin screaming.

  The flames devoured him, clothing first and then long hair blackening before burning away, eating away at flesh and charring skin to blackened ruin. His voice was raw, a tortured wail of rage and pain as he clawed at the scorched earth.

  Kenobi turned away.

  The scent of burning flesh filled the air, thick, acrid, suffocating. Vader's screams twisted into something inhuman, his body convulsing as the fire consumed him.

  The vision held me in its grip, my body still locked in place, every nerve burning with the weight of what I was seeing. Of what I was remembering.

  The pressure then snapped away like a noose cut loose.

  My eyes shot open and I gasped, sucking in air like a drowning man breaching the surface. My whole body trembled, shaking so violently I had to brace my hands against my knees just to stay upright. Every breath was ragged, uneven, as I tried to pull myself back into the present.

  But the echoes remained.

  I could still hear him. The raw, agonized screams. The fire crackling, hungrily devouring flesh. The scent of burning meat clung to my senses, refusing to fade.

  I clenched my jaw, forcing my hands to steady, forcing my breath to even out. It was over. It wasn't real. But the memory had been, and the weight of it sat heavy on my chest.

  I exhaled slowly, pushing past the lingering tremors. I didn't get what I wanted. The memory wasn't whole. The cost for nothing?

  I still heard my brother screaming.

  The Force slipped from my grasp like sand through open fingers. My focus shattered, drowned beneath the echoes of Anakin's screams, the searing heat licking at his flesh, the memory wrapping around my mind like a vice.

  "Focus," Malgus snapped, his voice cutting through the haze like a blade. "Again."

  Teeth gritted, I forced my breath into a steady rhythm, fighting to regain control. I forced myself to push past the screams, past the sickening scent of charred flesh, back into the details, the lecture hall, the professor's droning voice, Obi-Wan as a Padawan, the holocron's eerie glow. The pearls of memory began aligning once more.

  But then I thought of Anakin.

  A flinch. A flicker of hesitation.

  Malgus struck.

  The world twisted. The Force surged, and I was pulled under.

  I sank without control, dragged through the currents like a man caught in a riptide. My vision blurred, then sharpened too much, throwing me into a moment I had lived 1000 times in my nightmares yet now experienced in excruciating clarity as if I were directly living it again.

  The explosion. The shockwave tore through my senses, searing heat blooming as the Force itself howled.

  Agony. A snapping, burning pain ripped through my chest, tearing through the very core of my being. The Force bond between us, shattered. Not frayed, not weakened, but annihilated.

  Anakin was gone.

  His body lay still on the ground, the lifelessness in the Force a gaping void where he had once burned so brightly.

  The world spun. My head felt like it was splitting in half, as if my mind itself was tearing at the seams, struggling to contain the sheer, overwhelming force of it all.

  I pitched forward, my body refusing to obey as I barely caught myself on my hands. My mouth ached, every nerve ending seared raw, and the sharp tang of blood spread across my tongue. A wet drop struck the ground beneath me—saliva tinged crimson. My head swam, thoughts sluggish and disjointed, like they were trapped in thick, murky waters.

  And then—

  A shimmer, something shifting just beyond my grasp. Opaque and fractured, struggling to take form.

  The professor… he had spoken to Anakin.

  Words echoed through the haze, distant yet impossibly loud. Some secrets are best left hidden.

  His voice. His face. Long-necked, grayish skin…

  A Quermian. My mind filled in the blanks, making him look like the Jedi Master sat upon the council and was of the same species, but I remember now. It was a start, useful.

  I exhaled sharply, wiping my face with the back of my sleeve, smearing the blood across my skin. My hand trembled as I spat to the side, clearing the lingering copper taste. My breath was unsteady, my chest rising and falling in uneven beats.

  But I looked up at Malgus, forcing steel into my gaze.

  "Again."

  I collapsed onto my cot, my head pounding like a war drum. Hours of pushing, clawing through the shattered pieces of memory, and I still came up short. I knew now the professor was a Quermian. I had a few more details, blurred images that refused to fully form, but the name, the planet, what actually mattered, still slipped through my grasp like smoke.

  I would've kept going. I would've endured Malgus' technique, forced myself through the pain until I had what I needed. But on the twenty-seventh attempt, I felt the unmistakable warmth of blood trailing from my nose, then my ears. A warning. A limit.

  I barely had the strength to roll onto my back, my body refusing to move any further. Sleep took me unwillingly, dragging me down into restless, fevered nightmares. Fire. Burning flesh. A bond severed in agony. A brother left to die.

  (LINE BREAK)

  The ship hummed beneath my feet, a steady vibration that I barely noticed anymore. I stood in the center of the hold, my breath even, the weight of my sword familiar in my grip.

  I exhaled and reached out.

  A crate, heavy with random supplies that weren't fragile, lifted from the ground. The Force wrapped around it, my mind tightening on the weight, adjusting for its mass. It rose smoothly, smoother than I could have managed months before. The old itch at the back of my skull, that constant resistance, was barely a whisper now. Progress.

  I held it there and moved.

  My blade cut through the air, the first kata coming to me naturally. The weight of the crate pulled at my focus, but I didn't let it break the flow. Step, pivot, strike; each movement had to be seamless, uninterrupted.

  The moment I transitioned to the next velocity, I released my grip on the crate, letting it drop back into place without a sound. I reached out again before my blade had even completed its next arc, grasping another target, a durasteel container this time, heavier, bulkier. It lifted, my fingers twitching in reflex as I adjusted to its weight.

  Strike, turn, step. The kata continued, uninterrupted.

  I kept going, shifting between the blade and the objects, testing my limits. The Force wove through my movements, guiding, amplifying, smoothing the transitions. The sword was an extension of my body, the weight of the crates an extension of my will. One moment they were rising, the next they were settling back down as my strikes carved through empty air.

  It wasn't perfect. My control slipped on the last lift, the edge of the crate dipping slightly before I caught it. My footwork faltered for a fraction of a second. But the correction came faster than before, instinct kicking in, refining each motion.

  Pre was silent behind me, switching between reassembling a blaster and watching. I ignored him, focusing on the next sequence, on the rhythm, on the weight shifting between my grip and my mind.

  I let the next crate drop and shifted my grip, both hands wrapping around the hilt of my sword. The change was instant, my movements sped up and my strikes hit harder.

  I pushed forward, my body flowing through each velocity with increasing speed. The footwork, the angles, and the arcs all fell into place better now that my attention was less divided. Shii-Cho's broad sweeps, its simplicity and raw momentum, felt far more instinctive compared to even just a couple months ago

  My blade carved through the air, the familiar weight settling into my muscles.

  It wasn't refined, not yet. The holocron had shown me only the barely scratched surface of how the old masters trained, how they built their technique from the ground up. I wasn't there, not even close, but for someone who had only been studying Shii-Cho for a few months, my grasp on it was solid.

  I pressed on, my strikes coming faster, the transitions smoother. My breath was steady, my focus unshaken.

  "Kan'ika."

  Pre's voice carried easily across the space, cutting through the quiet hum of the ship. I slowed, finishing my last strike before turning toward him. His helmet look to have been just cleaned and basic maintenance put on it, resting beside him as he sat on a crate, one hand setting aside the blaster he'd been reassembling.

  "You keep at it like this, you'll get better," he said, rolling his shoulders and giving me a slight smile, "but you want real improvement? You need someone who can hit back, would you agree?"

  The words were casual, but the weight behind them wasn't lost on me.

  I knew exactly what he was offering, he wanted me to use my words in reply.

  Pre Vizsla wasn't just some warrior with a blade, he'd fought Jedi and walked away. Not just survived, but held his ground if I were to take his feats against Obi-Wan in the future into account. The thought of testing myself against someone like that, learning firsthand what it took to stand against that level of skill, sent a thrill through me.

  I tightened my grip on my sword, steadying my breath and I cannot keep the excitement out of my voice. "I'd like that."

  Pre didn't say anything else. He simply holstered the blaster, reached for his helmet, and slid it on with practiced ease. The familiar hiss of the seal engaging filled the space, followed by the soft click of the visor polarizing.

  Then he reached to his side, pulling his Beskad from its sheath in a single, smooth motion. The Beskar blade caught the overhead light as he angled it slightly, testing the balance in his grip.

  "Helmet on," he said simply. I was already wearing my armor and I knew that durasteel and plastoid could take hits from Beskar blades, just not constantly.

  I nodded, stepping over to the crate where I'd left mine. It was still new, the matte finish unscuffed, unmarred by battle. A proper Mandalorian helmet, one that covered my entire face, no exposed jaw or cheekbones like the old one. Pre had gotten it for me recently, making sure it was fitted right, built to take a hit.

  I lifted it, sliding it over my head. The interior display flickered to life, HUD activating as the world adjusted to the slightly tinted visor. The weight settled comfortably, familiar but still something I was getting used to.

  I exhaled once, slow and steady, then turned back to Pre. He was already waiting.

  I adjusted my grip, wrapping both hands around the hilt of my sword. I had the Force, but I was still twelve years old. My strength wasn't close to matching his, not yet. Leverage and technique would have to bridge that gap.

  Pre didn't waste time.

  He moved first, his Beskad cutting through the air in a downward strike aimed straight for my shoulder. He was taller, and even though he wielded the blade one-handed, his reach was nearly the same as mine. The angle of attack was sharp, controlled, but fast—testing.

  I shifted, stepping back just enough to let the strike pass while raising my blade to intercept. Metal clashed against metal, the impact vibrating up my arms. I let it slide off, redirecting rather than meeting his strength head-on.

  He pressed forward immediately, the next strike already coming.

  Pre kept up the pressure, his blade a blur as he made a series of probing strikes. Nothing reckless, nothing overcommitted; just sharp, controlled movements meant to test my reactions, to force me to keep moving.

  I adjusted, shifting my stance, keeping my blade between us as I deflected each attack. My grip was steady, my footwork precise, but every hit sent a reminder through my arms, Pre wasn't just stronger, he had years of experience. He wasn't fighting at full intensity yet, just escalating, forcing me to adapt.

  A diagonal cut came for my ribs. I stepped to the side, deflecting it at an angle. He reversed the motion instantly, bringing the blade back around in a horizontal slash at my head. I ducked under it, twisting on my heel as I came back up, my sword snapping forward in an instinctive counter.

  Pre caught it on his Beskad, twisting his wrist to send my blade off course as he backed away to create space. He was smiling. I could hear it in his voice even through the helmet.

  "Good," he muttered.

  I didn't let him retake control.

  I pressed forward, switching from defense to offense in a single breath. My blade moved in broad, sweeping arcs—Shii-Cho at its core, but with sharper angles, quicker transitions. A cut at his shoulder, a feint at his side, a downward slash aimed at forcing him to block high.

  He did, his Beskad catching the strike, and I pivoted immediately, shifting into another attack. I wasn't trying to overpower him because that was difficult, I was trying to break his rhythm. To push him back like he'd done to me.

  His footwork remained solid, his parries efficient. But he was watching now, taking me more seriously.

  I felt the Force burn through me, a warm flame spreading through my limbs, fueling each strike, sharpening my focus. It beat back against the cold chill lurking beneath, the whispers that slithered at the edges of my mind, hissing for me to dig deeper, to take more. I ignored them.

  My attacks sped up. My blade cut through the air in relentless arcs, striking from different angles, trying to force an opening. I wove between power and precision, shifting through Shii-Cho's broad sweeps and the sharper edges of the techniques I had begun to incorporate. My footwork adjusted instinctively, driving me forward.

  But Pre was a wall.

  He didn't just block, he shifted, deflected, and sidestepped, his movements almost lazy in their efficiency. His Beskad met my blade with controlled force, turning aside each strike at just the right moment to rob it of power. When I adjusted, he was already a step ahead, moving just out of reach, making me work for every inch.

  The frustration simmered, but I didn't let it take hold. This was part of it. This was learning.

  I exhaled sharply, tightening my grip. My next strike came faster, a downward slash that Pre sidestepped, letting my blade carve harmlessly through the air. His footwork was almost casual, as if he wasn't even trying yet.

  "Faster than before," he noted, voice even. "But you're relying too much on momentum, and a properly directed counter can grind it to a halt. It's good, but predictable."

  I grit my teeth. Then I pushed harder.

  Pre met my next strike head-on, his Beskad turning my blade aside with a sharp clack of metal. I pressed forward, flowing into the next strike, then a second, third and fourth, each met with the same effortless deflection, his movements barely shifting under the force of my blows.

  The fifth strike came down, and before I even registered it, he was already moving.

  Steel screeched as his blade twisted inside my guard, knocking my sword wide. A split-second opening, one I barely had time to register before the point of his Beskad shot forward, aimed straight for my chest.

  I barely managed to react. The Force flared in warning, sharp and instinctive, and I flung myself back. My boots skidded against the floor, my breath leaving me in a sharp exhale as the blade missed by a hair's breadth, grazing just shy of the plates covering my torso.

  If I had been a fraction slower, it would have slammed into my armor full-force. Not enough to kill me obviously with my armor on, but enough to drive the lesson home.

  I exhaled through my nose, heart hammering, and reset my stance.

  Pre straightened, rolling his shoulders slightly. "Better." His tone was as even as ever, but there was something in it, some quiet approval beneath the critique. "But not good enough. You only avoided that because I know you predicted it. If you want to use such tricks, let's see how well they work." The last part's delivery had an audible grin to it, and I felt a shift in the force as I noticed his posture coil like a serpent ready to strike.

  I barely had time to brace before he moved.

  One moment he was standing there, the next he was on me, closing the distance with terrifying speed. His Beskad flashed, cutting through the air in a strike that would've split my helmet in half had I not already been moving.

  The Force screamed a warning—louder than before, sharper. I barely twisted out of the way in time, my feet shifting rapidly as I gave ground. Another attack came, then another, each faster than the last. I caught one on my blade, but the impact nearly jarred the hilt from my grip.

  I kept moving, backstepping, circling, my muscles straining to keep up. My breath came faster, but I forced it steady, my mind trying to keep pace with the raw, unrelenting aggression bearing down on me.

  Pre wasn't just testing me anymore.

  He was hunting.

  Pre's first strike had been a downward diagonal slash, but as I dodged, he pivoted smoothly, bringing the Beskad back up in a sharp rising cut aimed at my ribs. I barely twisted my torso in time, the durasteel edge skimming past my armor.

  He didn't stop. The moment his blade reached its peak, he flipped his grip, reversing the momentum into a tight horizontal slash at my helmet. I ducked under it, hearing the air whistle as the edge sliced just above where my head had been.

  I tried to step back, but he was already shifting forward, pressing the attack. He switched to a thrust, a quick, brutal stab aimed center mass. I twisted, my blade snapping down to deflect, but his strength nearly knocked my sword aside entirely.

  My footing faltered, and that was all the opening he needed.

  He dropped low, his knee nearly touching the floor as he swept his Beskad in a vicious low cut, forcing me to jump back before he could take my legs out from under me. I barely landed before he surged up, his blade coming in from my right in a tight, controlled arc; this time an inside-to-outside slash that would shear through my side if I didn't react.

  I barely managed to get my sword in place, the impact of Pre's strike jolting through my arms. My grip held, but I hadn't braced properly—the sheer force of the blow sent my own blade skidding off at an angle, scraping across my armor with a sharp screech of metal on metal.

  Pre didn't press the advantage. Instead, he stepped back, fluid and measured, raising his off-hand in a clear signal to stop.

  I exhaled sharply, adjusting my stance, the phantom sting of impact still vibrating in my fingers.

  Pre tilted his head slightly, studying me for a moment before speaking. "You're skilled, Kan'ika. More than most your age—more than most adults. But if you plan to fight Jedi Masters, you're going to need to be much better." His voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "A Mandalorian who can kill Padawans in blade combat is one thing. A Mandalorian who can stand against a Master? That's something else entirely."

  He rolled his shoulders, resetting his grip on his beskad. "Continue when you're ready."

  I took a slow breath, centering myself. My arms still ached faintly from the last exchange, but I ignored it, shifting my feet and resetting my stance. The tip of my blade hovered low, angled slightly upward in a classic guard.

  Then, without another thought, I lunged forward.

  (LINE BREAK)

  I stumbled into my quarters, limbs like lead weights, every muscle burning from exertion. Sweat clung to me, soaking into my underlayer, but I barely noticed it over the residual hum of the Force thrumming through me. It was still there, coiled beneath my skin, coursing through every fiber of my being after hours of dancing on a razor's edge against Pre.

  Every strike, every block, every split-second adjustment had demanded my full focus. And now, that intensity still lingered, a sharpened edge to my awareness. It wasn't exhaustion, not entirely. The Force still moved through me, and I could feel its touch more clearly than I had before.

  I exhaled, closing my eyes for a moment before making my decision. The shower could wait. Now was the best time to meditate—while the Force still flowed so freely, before the haze of fatigue dulled my connection.

  I crossed the room, lowering myself onto the floor, ignoring the way my arms protested as I settled into position. I closed my eyes, drawing in a slow, steady breath, reaching for that current of power still coursing within me.

  I drew in another breath, steady and slow, and let myself sink.

  The Force shimmered around me, vast and unbound, an ocean of currents pulling in a hundred directions at once. I followed the flow, sinking deeper, feeling the weight of it press in from all sides—warm, vast, alive. But I held onto the thread, the one tether that kept it from pressing too hard against my sense of self.

  I couldn't let it consume me.

  The deeper I drifted, the more it threatened to pull me under, the edges shifting from clarity to murkiness, from light to shadow. Echoes of the spar, the hum of steel meeting steel, the near-misses, and the subtle warnings the Force had whispered all flickered in my mind. Each moment burned bright before dissolving into the depths, like embers fading into the void.

  But I remained. I was not the current. I was not the tide. I was the one moving through it.

  I steadied my breath, keeping my focus sharp, maintaining that thread, thin but unbreakable. I then called forth the memories I had tried to pull forth the weeks prior. I let the memories drift to the surface, guiding them through the currents of the Force, sifting through each fragmented detail I had uncovered so far.

  Adas' holocron.

  I focused, recalling every shred of information I had, what little there was. The whispers of old records, the half-heard warnings, the fragments of a location obscured by time. I could see the lecture hall again, the Quermian professor's long, grayish neck, his voice layered with intellect as he spoke of knowledge best left buried. The words wavered, blurred, just out of reach.

  I pressed further.

  The mission. Anakin and Kenobi. A world whose name remained veiled in fog. Images flickered, but the details slipped through my grasp like sand through my fingers, dissolving before I could hold onto them.

  I exhaled sharply, irritation curling at the edges of my focus.

  I combed through the details again, trying to pull something new from the murk. But it was like staring through rippling water, the harder I focused, the more distorted everything became.

  I exhaled slowly, forcing my frustration into the hungry chasm of the Force as I refocused. If prying at the planet nams itself wasn't yielding anything, then I needed to shift my approach.

  The professor.

  I centered my thoughts on him, letting the Force guide me. The grayish skin, the elongated neck, the way his voice carried through the lecture hall with measured caution. He had known something. Something deeper than what he had been willing to share outright.

  The image wavered, shifting like ripples in a pond. My mind reached back, further, before I ever had been born here. Before I even knew of the holocron's existence.

  A book. The book, where the holocron made its appearance.

  I could see its cover in my mind, clear as day, pages yellowed at the edges. It had been in my hands once, a paperback, back in my old life. The title wavered, unreadable, but the image remained.

  Anakin. Young, maybe thirteen or fourteen. His head was turned to the side, gaze distant, as if looking beyond the frame. Beside him, Obi-Wan Kenobi, older, his stare direct, unflinching, meeting the viewer head-on. And above them, looming like a ghost, another face. A third figure, not human, watching over them both.

  The memory solidified, sharp against the otherwise shifting currents of the Force. The book had told a story, hinted at truths I hadn't understood then.

  Now, I did.

  I latched onto it, pushing deeper, searching for the connection, something that tied it all together.

  I pressed harder, deeper, clawing at the remnants of memory, trying to force the details into clarity. And for a moment, something surfaced, an echo, faint and blurred. A surname, too distorted to make out, but its shape in my mind was clear enough. Two syllables. That much, I knew.

  I latched onto it, trying to dig further, to pull it into full recognition. But the moment I reached for it, it disintegrated, slipping through my grasp like ash caught in a gust.

  My eyes snapped open, irritation settling deep in my chest.

  I inhaled through my nose, exhaled sharply. Useless. That had taken I don't know how long, and for what? A vague shape of a name and a half-formed recollection of a book cover?

  I ran a hand over my face, only to realize the sweat had completely dried. My hair, damp when I'd started, had gone stiff. I swiped at my forehead again. Dry. That meant I'd been sitting here for hours.

  A fresh wave of annoyance hit me.

  Groaning, I pushed myself up. My legs protested immediately, stiff and aching from too long in one position. I shook them out, stretching just enough to keep them from cramping outright, then made my way to the other end of the ship.

  The shower. That was all I cared about right now. I needed to wash off the hours of sweat, meditation, and frustration before I drove myself insane.

  End chapter:.